


putting out fire

by reddisk



Category: Barry (TV 2018), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddisk/pseuds/reddisk
Summary: The phone rings.(Barry doesn't know a Richie Tozier. Admittedly, it's kind of complicated.)
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Eddie Kaspbrak, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 80
Kudos: 256





	1. it's been so long

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: i am not a person with dissociative identity disorder. my portrayal is not intended to be disrespectful or misleading. please do not take this work of fiction as a wholly accurate or realistic representation of the disorder. feel free to comment below with any questions/comments/concerns.

You don’t have to be a good person to be a hero. That was the hardest thing. For all he tried, he couldn’t convince himself he was _good._ Good was a tipping point on a scale, and he was a ton of bricks on the other end, pointing toward fire and brimstone and irreversible damage to one’s psyche, the kind of thing you couldn’t just _put behind you_ — and God knows he’s tried. God knows he wants it. Being _good_ is the carrot on the end of his stick. But it won’t happen.

Sometimes he wakes up sweating and panting because it won’t. Other times, it feels a little bit like the means to an end. There’s no finish line — so why run the race? What’s all the trouble for? 

And then the worming, maggoty thoughts. WebMD called those _intrusive._ Intrusive was a good word for it. They weren’t coherent so much as they blinked in and out of his head like muzzle blasts, pictures that screamed and voices that gouged their thumbs into his eye sockets. _No_ and _stop_ and _I don’t love you!_ Sally’s ruddy, teary face and then Janice’s chest split through the material of her windbreaker. Chris pleading. Pleading like — like a _bitch,_ which sometimes kept Barry up still, because however Machiavellian it seemed he’d never seen another soldier break down. Maybe it was supposed to be different outside the military garb and without desert sand biting at your tear ducts. Chris Marquette and his tech work. A kid at a desk, his face burning blue behind a computer screen. 

_I told you to get out of the car, man._

He slaps both hands against his forehead once, twice, three times. He thinks about Chris’s wife and he pinches at the bridge of his nose like she’s a headache that’ll go away. 

You don’t have to be a good person to be a hero. Barry’s not good, but he can be a hero. He’s done all sorts of meagerly heroic things that must’ve added up and up over the years. Enlisting for starters, and Fuches calling him a war hero — _Just like your old man!_ — and rounding up to the next dollar at Costco. Sally called him generous. Ryan Madison called him generous. But generous isn’t getting him anywhere quick. Generous, for all it made Barry beam with pride and purpose, was a Band-Aid kind of word that means — _signifies_ — nothing. And Barry told himself he’d try and be something. It’s been six months of quiet. Six months spent with Nick and Jermaine eating convenience store crap and hoping to God the other shoe won’t drop, and it hasn’t. Maybe it won’t. 

He really hopes it doesn't. 

The phone rings. 

He doesn’t recognize the number. It’s from Derry, Maine. Barry hates these calls, because it’s either a robot that makes him feel stupid or a real, actualized telemarketer that he’s too polite to hang up on immediately. He has to wait and wait until they finally stop begging him to stay on the line. Sometimes that’s never. But anxiety rackets off his skull like a tennis ball against a brick wall, so he accepts the call with a slide of his thumb and holds the phone to his ear. For a long second, there’s only a terse silence. He hears someone clear their throat sort of awkwardly on the other end of the line. Then he spits out, “Hello?”

“Hi, Richie Tozier?”

The voice maintains a breezy sort of self-assuredness, and yet it’s also uncertain. Just not about Richie Toes-Your. Barry idles, trying to stick a name to the face. It takes a while for him to be really certain he’s never encountered (killed) a Richie or Richard Something. (Excluding Ryan Madison. He blinks hard a couple times.) “No, sorry.”

“No, listen, it’s — it’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry?”

“Yeah, I got that part. Caller ID. It’s… Well, technology’s crazy, I guess.”

“Richie.” Mike sounds less confident now. There’s a rustling sound like he’s flipping through papers. “I get that your memory might be a little foggy. I know it, man. Everybody’s got that going on. The others, I mean. Something… Something happens when you leave Derry. Things get muddy.”

“My name’s not Richie?” It’s phrased like a question, more or less to be polite. He figures this guy was really thought he was on the right track. There’s a funny part of him that wonders if it’s an elaborate scam or a trap, but he truly can’t help but think Mike sounds like a good guy. Sincerely good. Not pretending. “It’s, uh. Barry. I really don’t know a Richie. Sorry.”

Another pause. Then, “Your number ends in 4-5-3-1?”

“Yeah.”

“Your name’s Barry?”

“Yeah.”

“Your last name?”

“I can’t—” He stops himself. He doesn’t have to lie so hard anymore. Only sometimes. “—I mean, Block. Barry Block.” He winces. 

“Block,” echoes Mike on the phone. He apparently has begun to back down. “Alright, Barry. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“It’s okay.” He’s beginning to feel uncomfortable, vaguely tingly, like he ran a balloon through his hair or scrubbed his socks against bare carpet. He finds himself looking at his open hand. It’s the same hand as ever — calloused, formerly puppyish years ago when he couldn’t wrap his head around being so suddenly tall, but now always vaguely sinister. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t grow up to be so big and broad. Being small seems easier. He wags his fingers, and he eyes the white, diagonal scar split down the center of his palm. He distantly remembers how it used to be pink. “Um. Good luck. Bye.”

He hangs up before Mike can respond. For a crazy second he considers saving the number, before he recognizes that’s _dumb_ and he doesn’t know a _Mike — So don’t be an idiot, maybe._

Mike Hanlon. A nice name, though. 

He sets his phone on charge and lies down flat on his back. The ceiling is webbed with old cracks that were never spackled by the landlord, just painted over. There are still perfect little bullet holes in the drywall that he hadn’t bothered to cover up — and his roomies certainly haven’t noticed, as they rarely see where he sleeps. They only really pester him when it comes to groceries or “dish duty” (for which they are notoriously lacking, but Barry likes the monotony of household chores, so he picks up their slack). All of the wooden furniture smells like lemon Pine Sol, and he vacuums for crumbs that don’t exist every weekend, but the bed is unmade and he hasn’t opened the curtains since he first moved in. He thinks about the fifteen or twenty guns buried in the wood and wire of his bed frame. 

He imagines himself in a big, winding house with walls painted colors named things like eggshell and rainy day gray. The curtains are always drawn apart so sunlight can spill in and warm the hardwood floors (cherry oak or something). There’s a spiral staircase and apples and oranges in a bowl atop the kitchen island. They’ve got spices like coriander and turmeric, cooking things Barry doesn’t really understand. But Sally does. 

It’s a different Sally. Not the Sally who struck him across the face (with purpose, with _intent,_ sure; but it still stung at first and then turned into a great, roaring thing that he couldn’t silence even if he wanted). Not the Sally who put him behind yoga class or the Sally who said she was as jealous of him as she was proud. As much as he loves Sally, her ambition and her pride and even the funny dances she does when she books a gig, the woman he sees at the foot of the stairs is not her. She’s nobody. She’s just some woman, skin and hair and organ tissue. 

“That’s toxic masculinity,” he says, stupidly and out loud. Then he whips his head around to make sure nobody’s listening. Distantly, he hears Nick shriek something like laughter at the television. 

It’s late. He should brush his teeth. 

The next time Mike Hanlon calls, it’s during class. 

His phone vibrates against his thigh. He bounces his knee, willing the sound away, but it buzzes again and again. Natalie looks at him a little bit like he kicked her dog in the ribs. Somewhat sheepish, he attempts to glance inconspicuously at his phone screen, only to recognize the area code — only a second after he spies _Derry, Maine_ in Helvetica. 

He doesn’t technically have to take it. But he still bolts out of class, Mr. Cousineau watching him with a familiar kind of exhaustion worrying between his two fuzzy eyebrows and Sally turned all the way around in her seat, making a decidedly concerned face. She’s been suddenly at his heels since the break-up. He doesn’t know what it is besides a Sally-ism, but he doesn’t especially mind it. It’s nice when she trails a hand up his bicep. So long as it doesn’t lead to more, which becomes fighting and feelings and cold beds, it’s nice. 

He backs up against the nearest wall and accepts the call. “Hi.”

“Still Barry?”

It’s not a condescending tone, but it unnerves him. He glances anxiously toward the nearest window. “Yeah.”

“Alright. I’m only just beginning to piece this all together myself.” More flipping sounds. He feels a migraine building behind his forehead. “You mind if I ask a couple questions?”

“I’m sorry, I’m kind of in the middle of something.” He glances back toward class. Still, distantly, he feels a pang of curiosity. Mike’s voice isn’t familiar but it’s also like _home._ He realizes even in his head that he’s not making any sense. “And… Listen, no offense, but I don’t especially like being interrogated by. Maine people?” 

“It’ll be quick and painless, I promise you.”

A pause. “Okay.”

“Great. Perfect. Thanks, Barry.” The way Mike says his name sends cold trickles up his spine. He presses his mouth into a thin line. “See, the guy I’m looking for? He stops in his tracks somewhere ‘round ‘94. Can’t find anything. No papers, nothing. It’s crazy.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“And we used to be really close. I mean, even now, I could pick him out of a crowd. He… Well, he never let you forget he was around, anyhow. We called him Trashmouth.”

Another pause, like Mike expects some big reaction out of him. He just stays silent. 

“Anyway, you said your name was Barry Block. Berkman, if we’re getting technical — but don’t worry, man, I’m not concerned with that. Your Facebook’s under Block anyhow. And I saw your profile picture and it hit me like a freight truck.”

His mouth dries up. His heart pounds like it’s trying to fracture his ribs. He hears it in his head: _I’m a cop, and you’re a fucking murderer. I’m a cop, and—_

“You look just like Richie Tozier.”

Oh. “I. I guess. I don’t know who that is.”

“I figured. You got any medical records?”

“No.” He realizes that’s the wrong answer after he says it. “I mean, I do. But I’m not going to fax you my shit over the telephone. That’s… I think you need to stop calling me, man. This is freaking me out.”

“I bet.” Mike turns soothing over the phone. Barry knows he’s a sucker, but he supposes it’s really become evident now that he’s staying on the line with the weirdest con artist he’s ever accidentally encountered. The smart thing would be to hang up. He should. He will — but Mike keeps talking, and he suddenly loses his guts. _Just like the fucking telemarketers. You idiot._ “I’m going to make sense of this. Okay? I’m going to say a couple names, and you tell me if they ring any bells.”

“Okay.”

“Bill Denbrough. Beverly Marsh. Stanley. Ben.”

“Yeah, no.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak?”

He really tries to think about it. Really. But all he can conjure is wind and dust roaring in his ears. There’s no before — only after. “No, sorry.”

“You got a copy of your birth certificate? A social security number?”

“Yeah.” Well, sure. They’re somewhere. (With Fuches. Probably burned to ash or locked in a trunk and forgotten in a Cleveland storage unit.)

“And they say Barry Berkman?”

“I’ve really got to go,” he says finally, and he quickly taps the little red button on his cell phone before Mike can say anything else. He can hear his pulse. He inhales, exhales, squeezes his hands into fists and releases them. Mike Hanlon from Derry. Well, who the fuck is Mike Hanlon from Derry, anyway? Barry doesn’t owe him any fucking credentials. He’s just stuck in some P.D. rut and Barry’s the unlucky suspect. (It occurs to him to be nervous. He’s always nervous, though. It’s like throwing buckets of water over the ocean.)

He silences his phone and returns to class. From her seat, Sally mouths _Are you okay?_ He smiles and nods. 

The third time Mike calls is that same night. 

“There’s not much time.” That’s the first thing he says, and he says it the second Barry picks up the phone. It catches him off-guard. “I can’t keep — look, people’s lives are on the line, Barry. Richie. As of right now, it doesn’t matter. I need a body. That’s it.”

“What,” says Barry, which is what he usually says when something goes way over his fucking head. 

“You get a plane ticket, and I’ll reimburse you. We need you here. I’ll send you the details.”

“Dude, I’m like,” he surveys the elliptical machines lined up in rows beside him and feels somewhat jarred, “at the gym.”

“Please.” Mike sounds desperate. Really, actually desperate. “ _Please._ ”

He scratches at his cheek. It’s dark out. Tomorrow’s really soon — but he’s done sooner in less time. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that no reasonable person would consider such a preposterous request. He’s got a life out here in California. He’s only just begun to build it, and doing things like flying out to Whatever, Maine in the dead of night doesn’t scream normalcy. It’s like another thing is telling him what and how to act — angling his jaw one way or the other, coercing him. Telling him that _this is it, buddy._ He shouldn’t be so casual about his money. Sasha won’t be happy. Mr. Cousineau won’t be happy. Sally. Sally— 

“You don’t have to reimburse me,” he says finally, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s a dead man already. 

A relieved sound. Then: “It’s time to come home.”


	2. don't you know my name?

The most annoying thing about flying is getting guns around. Since 2001, Homeland Security’s been especially bothered about this or that bullet or knife or nail clipper. It often puts a wrench in things. More than anything, it’s only inconvenient, because he’s a white guy and an ex-marine smiling very pleasantly at the TSA agent. She’s not really amused, but she takes his things. Declare each firearm: check. He’s got a Glock 17 unloaded in one bag; little alloy bullets are lined up neatly between individual slats of cardboard. He tells himself the same thing over and over in a mantra: that he can get more ammunition in Maine, that he doesn’t need a rifle. Rifles are big. They quirk eyebrows. 

His excuse used to be hunting. Fuches talked a big game about all the dumb-eyed bucks he and his dad apparently shot and nabbed out in upstate Ohio, but Barry used to ask for his M40 and Fuches would grab for a Baretta, so he kind of doubts all that. In any case, he doesn’t get any thrills out of shooting harmless animals between their eyeballs. He doesn’t remember Fuches being around anyway. Or his dad. Or… Hunting.

He suddenly feels a pressure building behind his forehead. 

The flight is fine. He’s accustomed to planes, even if they annoy him. He’s knock-kneed between two other people and it’s all he can do not to stretch his legs out as far as they’ll go, but he’s too tall for the seats and his sneakers already scuff at the metal underside of the next row. The sky sprawls out for miles outside the window, yellow and feather-downy with clouds. It’s the brink of dawn wherever they are. Some nowhere. There’s nothing but dirt and green and long, lazy roads spanning the world below. 

He checks his watch. He bounces his knee. The lady to his left gives him a testy kind of look, so he stops. 

Nobody from class was concerned. He said _family stuff_ and they all nodded their heads, looked away. It might seem a little sad — but it makes things easy. Sometimes he wonders why it can be so goddamn easy to do bad things. Maybe he’s just… Used to it. Loopholes and forged alibis. He screws up his face in a frown. His phone pings and he half-expects it to be Sally, but it’s Mike from Derry. (That’s the contact name. It’s a very literal interpretation.)

_7:00. It’s a restaurant called Jade of the Orient. I hope you like Asian?_

_753 Stillwater Ave. Only just outside of Derry._

_You’re coming, right?_

He sucks in a breath before managing to reply. Every little text feels like another breach of conduct. 

_Yes._

_Okay, good._

_See you then._

They land seamlessly. He eventually retrieves his bags, filled with the same preemptive relief he always feels when he finally gets off a plane and secures his things. He hadn’t seen the sense in a rental car — a paper trail, the kind of stuff he never worried about, only Fuches — so he hails a cab out of Bangor and pays in cash. He always tips crazy. It comes out to something like thirty bucks to get to Derry, so he gives the guy manning the cab a fifty and climbs out wordlessly. He’s got two bags: his luggage, clothes and toiletries and things, and a singular handgun. It's a vulnerable feeling to be so disarmed.

Everything gets dumped on the counter at the Derry Townhouse. It’s a place he certainly doesn’t recognize, dusty and kind of stuffy with the season. There are paintings and grainy photographs depicting historical events like Stalingrad and some Easter thing, all trees growing gnarled out of the Earth and people pointing up into the sky. Some twenty minutes into showing up, a woman finally appears and gives him a key. A real key. Barry stares at it for a long moment, unsure as to whether he misses the digitized hotel keycards he’s grown accustomed to. 

His room is stuffy, too. It smells distantly like an attic. He drops one bag near the door and immediately dumps the other across his bed, where his Glock and twenty-five or so rounds of Federal American Eagle ammunition come shaking out. He loads the Glock; his spare ammo gets tucked away. He finds himself staring hard at the patterned bedspread and the lacy, maybe cobwebbed curtains hanging off the windows. 

“What the fuck are you doing, man.” He says it out loud to himself. Then his hands clap over his ears. “What are you _doing,_ man?”

He can't forge an answer, so he lies down, kicks off his shoes, and tries to sleep. 

He wakes up at four o’clock and realizes he’s both anxious and starving. His first instinct is to wander some ways up the street and find something resembling food. There’s a coffee shop, and their espresso tastes like dirt, but it gets him so wired off caffeine that his hands begin to shake after he leaves. He picks delicately at a blueberry scone in a napkin. Most of it crumbles out onto the pavement. Feeling watched somehow, he retreats to the Townhouse and tries not to feel like the air’s been punched out of him when he sees another person’s keys dangling behind the countertop. 

Other people are here. He doesn’t know why that unnerves him. _It’s a fucking inn, dipshit. That’s kind of their thing._

His clothes are stale from flying and sleeping, so he showers. The water pressure is a little weak but it does the job once he successfully locates a handful of one-use soaps under the sink. For a while, he stands still just like that, letting the hot water drip and drip down his back (past the worst scar he’s got; a deep slash from the kitchen knife Ronnie’s daughter drove into his shoulder blade) and hanging his head. He watches soap swirl down the drain. There’s some kind of black mold growing into the grout of the shower tile. 

He thinks of the peeling wooden sign he’d encountered some ways back in the cab. _Welcome to Derry, Maine!_ He’s not sure. Not about any of it — the shitty coffee or the way Mike’s voice had trembled on the telephone, shooting off texts like Barry was an old friend versus some unfortunate soul he’d happened to harass into a plane ticket. It’s a swirling, tidepool kind of confusion, like every concern of his is swept up into a current that will build and build until it pulls him under and he chokes. It’s not too late. He tells himself that much a few times, toweling off his hair and running a disposable razor across his graying five o’clock shadow. It’s not too late to block Mike’s number or throw his phone into a body of water. He can subsist off diner food for a couple days and book a flight home. Easy. He doesn’t owe an invisible caller his undying allegiance, especially when he’s already crawling with nerves. 

It’s an unsuspecting person that stares back at him in the mirror. He dons a comfortable henley shirt, dull and blue like his eyes. Nothing about him says much of anything. _Barry Block! ‘Cause I look at you — and I see a block!_

He supposes he’s doing this. 

It’s dark out when he arrives at the Orient, which is some cheesy restaurant with fake Chinese timberwork branching off the roof and LED signs flashing things like _SUSHI BAR OPEN!_ and _OPEN 7 DAYS!_ in red and blue lights. Another cab. He feels extremely out of sorts, like the dragon decals stuck to the windows are going to bite him. He just watches the double doors for a long time. Mike hasn’t sent anymore texts — he’s not sure if this unnerves him or not, but he can’t gawk at the entrance forever, so he finally trudges onward with the weight of his pistol pressing firm at his waist. It’s a silent comfort. He wishes it wasn’t. 

An awkward couple hovers on the sidewalk. At first he wants to weave around them, but it becomes increasingly clear that they’re having some kind of a moment. The awkward feeling in his chest blooms into outright and frayed anxiety. He fights the urge to cough. 

The woman peers at him with eyes like saucers. She’s got red hair and a worried expression. That’s all he has the chance to register, because she stares for another couple seconds until the guy is looking, too, and then it’s the pair of them ogling him.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say anything. So he blurts, “I — Sorry.” 

She frowns. As if suddenly realizing she’s still gripping the other man’s arm, she rips her hand away and takes a big, protruding step to the left. Her mouth moves, but he can’t hear. 

Their faces are a ringing silence. He feels himself breaking apart at his seams. It’s threads bursting and snapping in his brain, but no cotton stuffing.

“Are you okay?” 

He blinks. Hard. “What.”

“Richie.” The guy reaches out a hand and sets it on Barry’s shoulder. “It’s us, man. It’s Ben.”

“I’m Barry.” He thinks he might look a little insane, visibly disturbed with his eyes flickering between their faces. He really doesn’t know them. He realizes that, now. It’s only as if the universe’s cosmic forces bent around them and said _th_ _is is right._ “I know I look like Richie, Mike said I look like Richie. Sorry. I’m not Richie.” 

They look at him a little longer. His shoulders tense up. 

“Okay,” says the woman, finally. “It’s… Nice. To meet you. I’m Beverly.” She extends a hand. She and Ben exchange another funny look, and Barry feels like he’s melting into the asphalt, but he shakes her hand anyway. 

“Guess we should go inside,” says Ben. He has a kind face. It throws Barry off a great deal, but he nods curtly and follows them anyhow. He hasn’t got many choices besides r _un and don’t look back._

The inside is nicer than the outside. Beverly flashes a winning smile at the hostess and asks about Mike Hanlon, so they’re directed toward the back. Barry lags some way behind with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Paper lanterns dangle low above them, lit up into warm colors with battery candles. Whole families pick at platters of orange chicken and pineapple fried rice. They step into some private part of the restaurant, shielded off with paper partitions and a big glass tank containing a couple speckled koi fish — and that’s about when it really starts to fall apart. 

“You came.” He recognizes Mike’s voice first. He’s a tall, casually handsome man, dark-skinned and just beginning to gray around his temples. He’s still got an arm halfway wrapped around another man’s shoulders. 

“Look at these guys,” says the third. He’s thin-faced and anxious, his dark hair slicked into a neat shape with gel pomade. He flashes a nervous smile, and perfect little dimples appear in the hollows of his cheeks. There’s an awkward silence after he speaks that grips the six of them like a vice. Then he sort of winces, and Ben laughs, and Beverly laughs. 

_You don’t belong here. This is fucking weird._

“Richie.” One of them steps forward and smiles at him. He’s a little short, but he holds himself like he’s accustomed to taking charge. “It’s good to see you, man. What about your glasses? Got contacts?” 

“I’m not—”

“This is Barry,” says Mike. “It’s kind of complicated.” 

* * *

The fourth guy is apparently Bill. He’s extremely charming, talking cool like he’s an old friend, and not seeming to mind that Barry is hardly listening. He chats with the others too and seems to put them at ease in their own respects. Especially Eddie — that’s the third — who alternates between making moony eyes at everyone else and scowling hard at Barry. Yes, he notices. He notices because it feels like a scalpel scraping at his bones. They’ve all settled more or less into the squeaky wooden chairs surrounding their table with faint, fake smiles, but Eddie still glares daggers at Barry without even an iota of remorse. Barry thinks his ears might be pink. For all he’s seen and done, social ineptitude is still one of his worst, most glaring faults. He sips quietly at a foamy glass of beer while the others gradually — no, goddamn near _immediately_ — come to terms with one another. 

“Why would Stanley save you anyway? Was I not the one to basically perform surgery on you? After Bowers cut you up?” Barry realizes that Eddie talks with his hands. He gestures with the one, and with the other he clutches at his wine glass until condensation fogs up around his fingers and his knuckles go white. “Holy shit, that’s right!”

Beverly smiles into her drink. “Please tell me you ended up becoming a doctor, Eds.”

“No. I,” he bobs one shoulder in a little shrug, “I ended up becoming a risk analyst.” There’s a beat of silence. Then he looks at Barry, his expression scrunching up like he’s openly daring him to laugh.

Barry blinks at him. He almost feels the temperature shift in the room, suddenly colder, as if the others had forgotten he was there to begin with and didn’t quite appreciate the reminder. Eddie’s gaze doesn’t waver, so he tries hard to think up a sufficient response. “That sounds… Really interesting.” Another second ticks by. He squeezes at his glass. “What does that entail?” 

“I work for like, a big insurance firm, and…” Then he stops. “You don’t have anything to say about that? Nothing about how it’s boring, or—”

“Eddie,” cuts in Beverly, but the damage is done. They’re all looking at Barry now. He can hardly remember their names.

“What about you?” Bill flashes Barry an attempt at a reassuring smile. “Tell us about yourself. You must feel really out of sorts right now.”

“No, I really don’t mind.” He shakes his head. Mike starts to nod encouragingly, so he forges on. “I live in Los Angeles. I moved there recently. I’m an actor.”

“You’re an actor?” says Eddie disbelievingly. Beverly smacks his arm. 

“That’s great, Richie.” Bill stops and frowns. “Sorry — Barry. I’m actually still really confused about this whole thing. You being here and Richie _not_ being here.” He looks at Mike. 

Mike turns to Barry again, clasping his hands across the table (and nearly dipping his elbow into a bowl of lentil soup). “So you aren’t _from_ LA.”

He shakes his head. “No, Cleveland.”

That stops Mike up short. “Ohio?”

“Yeah, um, I enlisted after I graduated. And my dad’s friend — he’s kind of like an uncle to me — after I got discharged, he got me into a regular line of work.” He freezes. “Auto parts.”

“Fucking auto parts.” Eddie digs his fork into a spring roll so that it splits open and spills minced carrot across his plate. “I bet you don’t know a fucking thing about cars.”

Ben appears confused. “I don’t really see why he’d lie about it.”

“I don’t think he’s lying,” says Mike, “but I do think something’s up. That’s why he’s here. And — well, I’m sure you’re all wondering why _you’re_ here.”

Another resounding silence. Relieved to have the pressure off his back, Barry picks silently at his lo mein. 

“...It’s weird, right?” Ben looks at Mike. “Now that we’re all here, everything just comes back faster and faster. I mean, all of it.” 

Eddie stares at the table. “When Mike called me, I crashed my car.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” 

Mike’s jaw sets. Barry watches him, accidentally quirking his eyebrows. 

“—My heart was literally, like, pounding out of my chest.”

“I thought it was only me.”

“It was like pure...” Bill trails off suddenly, stopping like he just can’t get the word out, tripping over the one syllable like it’s a Herculean leap. 

Mike interjects. “Fear. It’s fear, what you felt.”

Barry stares off, now. He doesn’t get the same prickling sensation under his skin that the others do; he doesn’t seize up or grip at the arm of his chair. His vision almost fuzzes out for a second. He sips on and off at his glass of beer, and it suddenly occurs to him that beer’s a waste of time. It doesn’t get you drunk quickly enough. It tastes just as bad as any other liquor. So why bother with it? Why make a fucking production out of it? _And fucking IPAs for twenty-something college yuppies thinking they’ve got it together because they like their beer to taste ESPECIALLY shitty—_

“ _Pennywise_.”

“Oh, the fucking clown.”

“Mike, you said you wanted our help with something—”

— _Fuck are you drinking that for? Get shots. They’ve got to have shots of something at the bar. But vodka's for kids, man, don’t get vodka or I’ll fucking wrap a noose around my neck and the doorknob and do the Hutchence_ —

“ _Dude!_ ” 

The world is still fuzzed out. He grasps for the table, feeling like he’s falling for a second.

Eddie looks furious. “Give me your fucking cookie. Are you fucking kidding me? Have you not been listening this whole time? So we’re going to have to explain the _whole_ thing again, and,” he stops and frowns. “Are you okay? Are you sick or something?” 

Barry snaps his fortune cookie so haphazardly that it crumbles to bits in his hands. The little slip of paper inside says _Guess._

“—Why would it guess it could not cut?”

“It could not _guess_ —”

“When it says _it,_ is it talking about—”

“This is not fucking funny—”

“—I need my _fucking_ inhaler!”

He scrubs his hands over his face. Beverly, with hot tears streaming down her face in rivulets, pushes her fortune across the table. It’s quiet. Quiet enough that Barry can hear the blood rushing in his ears, his pulse in his neck and wrists, his breath catching in his trachea as he goes to exhale — sensations of panic he’s never experienced before, brash symptoms that leave him feeling washy and confused. It’s a new kind of anxiety. Anxiety like rose thorns that snag on his arms and legs.

Eddie is shouting when the table begins to shake — specifically, the ceramic bowl containing their cookies, all of the separate paper fortunes rattling in their shells. Barry leaps up and out of his seat. To his immediate horror, the cookies begin jumping out of their bowl, their golden-yellow exteriors cracking open into fragments and crumbs, leaking — leaking _blood,_ he realizes, blood so thick and hot it’s practically reached a boil. Ugly things erupt and spill out onto the table like molting insects. Something resembling an infant, twitching as it sprouts wings. A sopping eyeball followed by long, slimy tendrils. A bat wing — still attached to its shell, but taking flight anyhow, diving towards Eddie. Ben swipes at it with both hands. 

Nausea drips down Barry’s insides. For a delirious second, he thinks of the Glock tucked under the waist of his slacks. 

“It’s not real!” The voice is fuzzy and tinny like it’s coming from a walkman, but it’s definitely Mike. He grasps for a chair. “It’s not real! _It’s not real!”_

But it _looks_ real. It feels real. Barry can feel heat rising from the table up against his face, and he can certainly feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest and onto the floor. It’s only once he spots the baby bird, disfigured and miserable, that he finally reaches for his gun. 

“ _Whoa,_ ” says Ben, just as Barry raises both arms and squeezes the trigger. 

Gunfire doesn’t make a _bang._ In Barry’s opinion, it pops. Or it’s an individual thing — plenty fucking loud, but nothing like anything else. In any case, a hush falls over the entirety of the restaurant. He realizes belatedly that whatever horrible, fluttering creature had been making circles around Eddie and Ben’s heads was shot into red paste. The exiting bullet dove directly through the drywall. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Eddie’s voice has gone high and thin like a dog whistle. He clutches at his own chest. Their waitress pokes her head in, seemingly oblivious to the mess made of their table and the smoldering pinhole in the wall. 

“Just the check, thanks,” says Richie Tozier. “I can’t fucking see.” Then he pivots toward a potted plant, retches like he’s fully expecting to vomit, and collapses in an unconscious heap on the floor.


	3. with gasoline

Things are supposed to make sense. Life is made up of winding choices, choices a person makes because they make _sense,_ like the rest of the world makes sense and like Eddie wants desperately to make sense. He’s spent the last twenty-seven years being a reasonable person. A regular person. An adult man with a wife he thinks he cares about, however incrementally and under a familiar, looming shadow of obligation; a decently wealthy man with a spacious two-story residing in New York’s city suburbs, organic produce in the refrigerator and Oxiclean under the sink, speedy internet, an HBO subscription, a guy to tend to the fucking flowers. He ultimately feels as though he’s done the decently sensible thing for all his life — for as far back as he can remember. Triangles have three sides and rectangles have four and all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares. Stars are big balls of gas like hydrogen and helium in the sky, and they don’t have five separate points like they did in his childhood coloring books. 

So, will someone tell him when his life _really_ began to fall apart, please? He doesn’t quite get it. He doesn’t. He’s done all of the right things and _said_ all of the right things and he’s still drawing the short fucking straw, time and time again.

Richie had the same face. Those same hard angles, and the same wildly, oftentimes accidentally expressive eyebrows, dark and arched. The new lines in his face only made Eddie curious. When he saw him initially, he felt a rush in his stomach he hadn’t felt in a long time — not for ages. Not since Richie was supposed to leave for Santa Barbara all those years ago. He remembers Richie holding his face like it was yesterday. He was wearing his retainer, like he only did when he was around his dad. His eyes were misty behind the blur of his glasses. 

_“I’m gonna miss you,” he said. Then he pinched at Eddie’s cheek until it hurt, but Eddie didn’t try and pull away like he usually did._

_“Don’t be stupid,” said Eddie — and he was crying. Really crying, feeling tears pouring down his cheeks and sniffling hard so snot wouldn’t come dribbling out his nose. He hugged Richie._

Even if he somehow mustered up the courage, he would never get the chance to ask Richie whether that hug meant anything like he wished to God it did. Richie never called from his new home. 

He hadn’t realized how desperately he’d wanted Richie to call him Eds, just the _once_ for old time’s sake, until he didn’t. Because it wasn’t _Richie_ sitting across from him. 

“ _Barry?_ ” He said it in a hushed tone to Ben. “Who the fuck?”

“I don’t get it either,” whispered Ben, still smiling to seem unsuspicious. 

Barry was an _actor._ In Los Angeles. He held himself like he didn’t want to take up any space, shrunk down and picking at his food while the others spoke over one another. His hair was neatly combed and his elbows stayed tucked in. Eddie caught sight of his hand closed tight around a glass, his tendons visibly shifting, and he felt a cloud of fury like black smoke.

And fucking auto parts? He’s going to be sick. 

He almost manages to forget during dessert. Dessert, which bubbles up like hot tar and melts through the surface of the table, charring the hardwood and reeking of decay. There are rotten heads bobbing amidst the aquarium fish and chimeric _things_ flapping around the room; they cuff Eddie over the ear once and Ben across the forehead. A sound rings out like a baby crying and Beverly covers her face with her arms, sinking against the wall. Then there’s a _crack_ that reverberates through the room, through Eddie’s body and practically the _universe._ His ears ring. An immature part of him wants desperately to cry, but he swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to look up from the floor. He can feel his knees trembling. 

“Are you fucking insane?” he asks, because he sincerely thinks Barry might be. He stares at the gun like it’s got teeth. 

But Barry says _Just the check_ and then _I can’t fucking see._ He goes careening into a potted plant like a goddamn drunkard. Eddie might be angrier if he wasn’t so alarmed, grasping automatically for his inhaler. Bill moves to hike Barry up by the shoulders. He’s not entirely unconscious, but his face is ashen and his eyes flicker up into his eyelids like he’s looking for something in the back of his head. 

Ben takes the check. Mike is still staring at the new hole in the drywall. 

While Beverly phones Patricia Uris (a woman Eddie has never heard of, and is quite frankly scared of if she’ll serve as any actualized evidence of Stanley being a dead adult, actually _gone_ ), Eddie props Barry in the passenger side of his rental car. He reclines the seat and climbs into the driver’s side, imagining for a second he has the wherewithal to fucking _leave,_ there and then. But he doesn’t. He just wrings his hands. 

Barry’s eyes are closed. 

“Fuck you,” blurts Eddie without thinking. He catches himself too late. By then, he’s gawking at Barry and Barry is hardly present anyhow, so he physically can’t help but keep on going and going and _going_ . “Fuck you for showing up. Stan’s not here and you are. And who the fuck are _you?_ Barry from fucking auto parts? You sell Jeeps, Barry? I can’t stand fucking Jeeps. No doors or anything on half of them. That’s a one-way ticket to getting your skull ground into jelly against the interstate, you know. And the electronic gear shift — it was a Jeep that killed Anton Yelchin. He got crushed to death between his Grand Cherokee and a mailbox pillar. Not that you fucking care. Mike looks at you like you’re Richie but you’re _not_ Richie and I wanted to see Richie.” He didn’t think he’d say it out loud, not to anybody — but it’s true. Since remembering Henry Bowers and the Barrens and Pennywise the Clown, the hole in Eddie’s chest has only expanded, pining childishly for Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier. The kid with birdy legs and razors for elbows that a younger Eddie used to watch curiously from the corners of his eyes. Richie made him laugh, of course. He made people laugh just as much as he drove them up the fucking walls. 

_Beep-beep!_ He’d forgotten about that. He didn’t beep Richie like the others did, though. Richie might’ve been annoying, but that was the fun of it. Poking and prodding at one another’s nerves until somebody (Eddie) kicked the other person’s (Richie’s) shin. 

Barry doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he croaks out a sentence, sounding distant and confused. “I legit can’t see.”

“You look like Richie.” Eddie covers his face, embarrassed. He supposes it doesn’t matter. “You look exactly like him.”

Barry squints. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, asshole. Great. Fucking super. You’ve got flying colors in knowing my name.”

“I need my glasses.”

“I don’t have your fucking glasses!” He feels himself getting overly upset, but it’s a slippery slope to losing his mind. “Will you just sit there? _Please?_ ”

“Is everything okay?” says Mike suddenly, making decidedly concerned eyes at the pair of them through the cracked passenger window. Eddie jumps in his seat. Barry peers up at the pair of them with his eyebrows furrowed so tightly together that the whole of his face crinkles up, and Eddie feels a drop in his stomach that he pretends not to understand. 

_Married! You are married! Holy matrimony, et cetera!_

“Fucking Spaghedward is being a dick,” says Barry, gesturing vaguely toward Eddie. He’s slumped in his seat with his knees spread out like he’s hogging a seat on public transport. Before, in the restaurant, he was Barry-Something with anxious eyes and both hands tucked neatly under the table. Mister Auto Parts and his blue eyes and his henley shirt. 

Eddie’s stomach drops even further. It reaches his feet, then the floor of his car, and from there it plummets to the center of the Earth. 

“...Barry?” tries Mike. When that earns a sour look, he tries again. “Rich. Richie?”

“That’s the ticket. You know where my glasses are? I can’t find them. I can’t see past my fucking nose.” He gropes blindly along the car console.

“This is fucking _dumb,_ ” says Eddie, feeling sick.

* * *

Initially, Barry — _Richie —_ blunders around the Townhouse like a bull in the world’s shittiest china shop. He grabs at things like he’s never seen _objects_ before, marveling at framed paintings and photographs with his face screwed up because he can’t make anything out properly without his prescription (Mike offered his reading glasses, which Richie dons now so that he doesn’t crash into any walls, but he claims that they are headache-inducing). He is also pleased to find a bar. He fetches a dusty bottle of rye whiskey and pours out a pint glass like he’s dying. 

Eddie watches wearily. Even in the midst of Mike’s begging and pleading, he feels as though he ought to make a beeline for home while he’s still _alive,_ but it’s as if his body is frozen stuck to the floor. Of course he dreads the unknown with every inch of his being, and he knows he can’t stay, he _can’t_ — but he’s also inexplicably drawn to explore in the midst of his confusion. It’s plain intrigue, really. He knows these fixtures like he knows the white scar running across his palm: the Townhouse, the old Standpipe, Keene’s Pharmacy, the Barrens and the jagged rocks he used to toss into runoffs so he could hear them go _ker-plunk!_ Things must be different now, he realizes, and it burns him up just thinking about it. 

_But Derry was never home. Derry was never safe or nice, either. You hear about curiosity killing the cat?_

While Bev and Ben mutter to themselves near the bar, Eddie paces. He is extremely prone to pacing. He’d paced before his wedding reception and hasn't stopped since.

“This is cool,” says Richie. If he’d seemed familiar before, he certainly seems it now. His hair is intentionally sloppy as though he raked his hands through the part; even Mike’s glasses make him look different, _correct,_ like Richie always appeared with his eyes magnified big and bright behind their lenses. He stands in more of a slouch, his knees bent and his shoulders rounded forward, whereas the person Eddie met earlier in the evening kept his posture ramrod-straight. He points at an older portrait of a man in uniform. “Fuck is this, World War One?”

“Just because it’s in black and white doesn’t mean it’s World War One,” says Eddie crossly. He stops pacing to look. “Besides, that looks like Vietnam.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s a famous picture. That was during a Pyrrhic—”

“Fascinating,” interrupts Richie loudly, and points to another photo. “And this one, Professor Kaspbrak?”

“Fuck you, dude.” 

“Fuck _you._ ”

“No, fuck _you!_ ”

“Boys,” says Beverly, and Eddie suddenly feels flush with shame. It’s eerily similar to the voice she used to corral them as kids. Richie and Eddie were so prone to being obnoxious that Stanley insisted on trashing their box of Twister, because he was sick to death of them winding up tangled and trying to knee each other’s stomachs. 

_Stanley._ There’s a pang of nostalgia, but mostly grief; Eddie hardly managed to remember who Stan was before realizing he died. He recalls trying to compete with Stan for Richie’s attention as kids. So _stupid_ now, to think Stanley Uris was anything but sincere — all dry wit and quiet bravery Eddie couldn’t help but envy. Of course he’s contemplated suicide. Not in passing, but in long and arduous stretches of time, drawing up pros and cons in his head like he hadn’t left the office at all. It didn’t matter. He’d never have the balls. Not like Stanley. And, God, wasn’t that a horrible thing to think? 

Richie looks up. The line of his jaw makes a harsh line; he appears uncharacteristically grave. “I remember this place.”

“It’s the Derry Townhouse,” says Ben. “We’d take field trips here during elementary school. Remember? The same thing, every year?”

“And you creamed your jeans every time, Haystack.”

Ben grins. His shoulders loosen, and Eddie gets it. Having Richie around to snark with at least feels _familiar._ “Sure did.”

“Richie,” interrupts Beverly. “How old are you?”

Richie looks at her like she’s stupid. But his face gradually falls, and he stares off, thinking hard. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “...I think. I think older.”

“And the year, honey?” Her voice is kind, but Eddie sees her eyes shining. 

Richie doesn’t say anything. He looks uneasy. 

“Stop it.” Eddie can hear himself getting defensive. “He doesn’t know, okay? So leave it.”

Ben shakes his head. “We have to figure out what he _does_ know, Eds.” 

“Fine. Fuck.” 

Beverly presses on. Eddie can’t help but admire her persistence, even while so obviously rattled. “You know us, obviously. You know our names.”

“Of course I know your _names_ ,” says Richie. “I was thrown for a second. I’ve got to say, I’m really relieved to be here. Honestly.” He picks at his sleeve. “With you guys.”

“Me, too,” says Ben. He glances at Beverly, then Eddie, before settling some ways away toward the staircase. His arms cross. “Even if we’re all a little confused. A _lot_ confused. I mean… It’s scary, being back. There’s a lot on the line.”

Eddie can’t help but think of home. Of _Myra,_ insisting Eddie stay in because of the rain, that he’ll catch sick or slip or worse. “Not really,” he blurts, without necessarily meaning to. He earns a funny look from Beverly and tries not to wince. 

Richie props himself up on the bar table, feet kicking; Eddie watches his long legs dangle. “I remember wanting a drink.” His face screws up. “Thinking about it kind of hurts.”

“We’ll stop for now.” Beverly fetches a pack of cigarettes from her front pocket. With a trembling hand, she sticks one between her teeth and lights the end. “It’s getting late. We could all use some sleep.”

Ben arches his brows. “You mean, we’re staying?”

“We’re _staying?"_ echoes Eddie, dumbfounded. He pictures his luggage upstairs, still fully packed and prepared to be restuffed in his trunk. 

“I think,” says Bev slowly, “it’s in our best interest to _think_ about this. I’m going to text Mike. You all do what you like, but I’m going to bed. I recommend you do the same before booking a home flight.” She looks at Eddie critically. 

“I _drove,_ dick.” 

Richie laughs. Eddie glowers at him. 

“Everybody stay safe.” Ben glances to Beverly expectantly, but she’s already headed upstairs, nursing her cigarette between two fingers and trailing her free hand along the guardrail. His face falls. Eddie shakes his head and turns away — he couldn’t stand to watch Ben and Beverly crash and burn as _kids,_ let alone now. Unfortunately, he then finds himself making direct eye contact with Richie, who flashes a smile and makes a suggestive hand gesture with his fingers. 

“Stop that,” snaps Eddie. He turns to head upstairs. 

“Hey, wait.”

“ _What?”_

Richie retrieves his wallet. Next, his driver’s license, which stops Eddie short. He waves it like a trophy. “My license says Barry Berkman.”

_Berkman. Berkman. Berkman._ Eddie squeezes his hands into fists. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Fine.” He shrugs. Still, his gaze holds, and Eddie’s ears start to burn. “Sweetest dreams, Eds.”

“Shut up,” says Eddie automatically, but then he softens some. He looks hard at the floor. “You too, though.”

Richie trails upstairs. Eddie watches him go, waiting until the footsteps stop and he hears a door click firmly shut; then he screws his eyes shut and stands just like that, in the dark. He focuses on his lungs swelling as he breathes. In, and out, and in again. Replenishing his body and brain with oxygen. Seconds ticking. Ticking. _Ticking._

_You could leave. Here and now, you could leave. You could leave this shitshow and never come back. Your car’s in the lot. You don’t even need your bags; there’s nothing in there worth dying for._

Once he’s upstairs, scrubbing his hair dry with a (incredibly suspicious-looking) towel, he opens Facebook on his phone. He types _Barry Berkman._ A profile crops up, short and neat and fairly new. There are pictures of theatre productions and some blonde woman; she’s smiles big for every photo, squeezing Richie’s arm. 

_Barry’s_ arm, he tells himself. 

He might want to strangle her anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, this took a while! i'm sorry. no promises on when 4 will be published, either. thank you all infinitely much for your patience :-) !


	4. red like jungle

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with a headache so resounding that he suspects it might be a migraine. And migraines are no good. He checks WebMD to be absolutely certain of the facts and is horrified to discover that recurring migraines are a symptom of Fibromyalgia, heart disease, and as a precursor to the second thing, high blood pressure. Would Keene’s pharmacy sell blood pressure monitors, he wonders? Does Keene’s exist anymore? Would it be in bad form to have an Amazon package delivered to the site of their pre-murder? And he means that. Upon reflecting on the bits and bobs of old Derry he’s managed to remember — broken bones and the sting then scream of fear and worst of all, every slip he ever endured in the sewers — he has reached the veritable conclusion that they are irretrievably fucked, thank you much.

So you’d think he’d get the gall to leave. Eddie thought so, too. He thought as much until he remembered the six people he’d loved most in the world. (And after a very dreary couple hours of late-night contemplation, he decided that leaving would be a disservice to Stanley. If only so soon. He wouldn’t feel very bad for hightailing so long as he wasn’t first to bat, and despite her words Beverly was looking mighty peaky the night before.)

He takes two Ibuprofen with tap water (lukewarm, so he grimaces) and clamors immediately downstairs. He hasn’t had this kind of energy in years. It’s not the refreshing kind — it’s the same breed of nerves that drives a person to cram for an exam they expect to fail. His teeth almost chatter until he spies Ben sitting very punctually at the bar, accompanied by Bill. 

“Good morning,” he says, probably a little too casually after the events of the night prior. He’s still trying and failing to stifle his feelings about Beverly’s confession and the Deadlights. Fated death is a fucked up thing to mention at the brink of dawn, in his opinion. It’s no wonder he couldn’t sleep. He nonetheless brings his elbow to rest against the banister and whistles a nervous exhale through his nose. 

Bill nods at him and continues nursing what appears to be a takeaway cup of coffee. “Morning.”

Before he can even ask, Ben says, “we’re going to have an arbitration.” He seems distracted. By what, Eddie can’t possibly fathom. There doesn’t seem to be anything more important than their imminent doom. “About the plan.”

“There’s a plan?” blurts Eddie, and Beverly appears from behind the stairwell. She’s got a cigarette tucked behind one ear and seems grayish in complexion; her eyes are far and dull like dying stars.

“As of yesterday,” confirms Bill. It occurs to Eddie suddenly that nobody looks particularly swell. Ben has an energy like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, gaze flickering between Bill and Bev and back again, and Bill looks like he pulled an all-nighter. He realizes then that while he and the others slept, Bill and Mike had probably tried to organize. They weren’t on vacation, after all. He’s needled with a hesitant kind of guilt. 

Then Beverly says, “you look like hell,” and he feels significantly less guilty after all. For all that he lied down and stared hard at the ceiling, he didn’t do much sleeping for the fact.

“Sure.” His eyes skim their assembled group. “Where’s Mike?” And he stops there, because broaching the subject of Richie-turned-Barry-turned-Richie feels kind of like instigating. 

“Upstairs,” says Bill, and Eddie feels his face screw up in a pained, awkward way before he can do anything to stop himself. Bill continues after another sip. “Talking.”

“Right,” says Eddie brusquely, and an awkward silence follows. He even coughs a little. They stare at him expectantly. And _he’s_ expectant, too, so he decides to just kick the can and asks the thing he supposes they’re all thinking. “To Richie?”

“We don’t know.” Bev shrugs one shoulder and saddles the empty barstool to Bill’s right. “But we’ll find out soon enough. Until then, we should probably stay out of it.” 

“It’s pretty stupid,” says Eddie. “The whole thing. _Barry_ from _Cleveland._ ” And although he thinks to himself that he is probably projecting a great deal more than is realistically appropriate, he sure as hell isn’t pumping any breaks. Not even Bev’s glassy stare can rouse him from his quiet obstinance. He sees that there’s a box of doughnuts perched on the bar and takes one without even considering his laundry list of dietary restrictions. Then he stares at it, feeling himself beginning to lose courage, but eventually he perseveres and takes a bite. A blue sprinkle sticks to his upper lip. 

“I don’t know if stupid is the word.” Bill seems thoughtful. “Unlikely, sure. But so is our current predicament. Frankly, I don’t find it all that hard to believe, in the context of — well, of Derry.”

“Who’s going to come downstairs, then? Which one?” Eddie looks at them all like he expects somebody to have an answer, but they don’t (and he feels belatedly stupid for asking). 

“Stop dwelling,” suggests Beverly. She tousles her hair with one hand in a careless way; Ben gets a sappy look about him that is painstakingly familiar to Eddie, so he looks away and nervously itches his wrist. He’s not sure if he could stand to face _It_ with Barry from Cleveland. Then again, he’s not sure if he could do it with Richie, either. His stomach lurches every time he remembers what brought them home. His memories are still blurry, but he remembers the clown in vivid technicolor. 

He should stop thinking about the clown.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” says Mike’s voice, and he sounds startlingly awake for how tired he looks as he descends the stairs. Eddie can’t help gawking at the person behind him. He finds himself analyzing his appearance: uncombed hair and the ghost of a slouch. He feels momentarily deflated until he realizes that he’s in the midst of polishing a (horrible) pair of tortoise shell glasses with the hem of his shirt. 

“Yeah, dude,” says Richie, and Eddie hates that he’s so relieved he could die. “I thought we were doing the field trip thing.”

“The field trip thing?” echoes Ben.

“It’s more like an excursion,” starts Mike, but Richie howls a laugh (Bill looks simultaneously fatigued and relieved) and claps a hand on his shoulder. Then he beams a smile at Eddie that might be supposed to mean something, but Eddie doesn’t have the same x-ray vision that told him everything Richie was ever thinking in middle school, so he looks away quickly and coughs into his arm.

_This is a travesty._

Mike explains everything. _Everything,_ Eddie can’t help but think in an exhausted way, although he’s so flush with adrenaline thinking about tokens and ceremonies and _trauma_ ( _This isn’t group therapy_ he found himself thinking accidentally, because he’s spent more than two decades pretending like he didn’t remember the crunch of his forearm he heard in his nightmares and he sure as shit isn’t going to delve _now_ ) that his hands are shaking. He might also be suffering from high blood sugar. He rarely indulges in sweets, and contemplates the (high, he determines) possibility of Hyperglycemia in a kind of daze as they trek through the woods, not wanting to think about the smell of rotting leaves or the babbling water he suddenly and viscerally remembers. He slips once on a wet rock, and he curses when Ben catches him. It’s ridiculous to fall into old ways like they are. Like he _feels_ himself doing. Eddie runs thirty minutes on the days he has time, which means five or six miles. He’s agile. He doesn’t lose his footing or cling to people’s arms, because he’s a fucking forty year-old man and his mental and physical faculties are perfectly intact. 

When they do climb out of the old clubhouse, dusty and itchy with phantom spiders (Richie is scratching at his head like he’s got fleas), Eddie can feel Stanley’s shower cap burning a hole in his jacket pocket. It’s weirdly poignant, holding on to the thing and thinking about the old friend he wishes to God he could have seen again. As an _adult._ Something curls up and dies in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about how Stan-the-Man will be a child in his mind forever. It doesn’t matter that he was recently forty, or that he was happily married to Patricia Uris, or that he had a life and a legacy and great stories from college to tell at parties. Eddie can only conjure images of mousy curls and birdy shoulders. He supposes that’s better than remembering nothing at all — twenty-four hours ago, he couldn’t tell you a thing about Bill Denbrough (whose books he found to be rather trite, actually) or Beverly Marsh (like he could give less of a shit about whatever _fashion_ was anymore).

He can’t help but wonder how in the hell he’s supposed to find his token, which could be feasibly _anything_ , before nightfall. 

“Check out my new digs.” Richie taps the frame of his glasses twice with his pointer finger, looking somewhere between smug and wholly earnest (it’s slowly beginning to bother Eddie that he’s struggling to decipher Richie’s inflections; it was never hard before). “Mike said he went on this, um, what was it called — I think it was Lens-something—”

“LensCrafters,” interjects Mike.

“That’s the bitch.” Richie snaps his fingers. “Overnight shipping, woke up to a goddamned box on the stoop. How cool is that?”

Eddie gives a pointed stare. There are arguably better times to be excited about modern conveniences, he can’t help but think (with a cherished belonging of their dead friend in his pocket and all), but then he wonders if Richie knows what an iPhone is. The idea that he will inevitably have to give a crash course on how to surf the web to a bewildered Richie Tozier is somehow both deeply frustrating and immensely relishable. “Technology’s crazy, I guess.” His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you going to shit your pants about Google next?” 

“I know about _Google,_ asshole,” says Richie, but his tone is somewhat unconvincing. His insistent scratching doesn’t help.

“I think if there were any spiders in your hair they’d have gotten the memo by now.” 

“If there’s one thing I know about spiders,” says Richie solemnly, “it’s that they don’t get memos.”

His headache has begun to feel like a kitchen knife driven between his eyes. He just throws his hands into the air, exasperated, and is about to steer the conversation away from spiders and toward the massively important and life-altering shit they’re supposed to be doing when a phone rings. _Richie’s_ phone rings. Eddie blanches, and so does Beverly, her mouth suddenly making a flat line that he thinks is supposed to mean _do not answer the phone._ But shouldn’t he? It’s easy to cast aside their reservations (and admittedly, curiosities) about Richie’s (Barry’s) life in Los Angeles while they pick at the scabs of their childhoods, while it’s Richie accompanying them and making the same old untimely jokes that Eddie clings to for just a shred of normalcy. But there’s so much they don’t understand, still — and if they’re going to perform a ritual that is supposedly so reliant upon togetherness and a kumbaya, then they should probably try to absorb as much as they can about whatever the hell happened (or is happening) (or is just, like, medically a _thing_ now) to Richie. 

Richie is unperturbed by their staring. He retrieves the offending cell phone from his pocket, squints a little at the screen (Eddie cranes his neck trying to catch a glimpse of the caller ID), and finally says somewhat irritably, “there’s no buttons.”

“It’s a touch screen,” offers Ben. Dust is settled in his hair.

“So I just…” He raises a finger and very ceremoniously drags it across the sliding bar at the bottom of the screen. He fails to do so the first time, tries again, fails again — so Eddie snatches the phone and answers it himself (tapping speaker phone while he’s at it for the sake of his own nosiness). _Sally,_ it says. His mood worsens instantly. Nonetheless, per Richie’s stunned blinking, he flushes and hands it back as swiftly as possible. 

There’s a pause before Richie opens his mouth, during which he is effectively cut off by what Eddie presumes (testily) to be Sally’s voice. 

"Barry! You haven't answered any of my texts. You haven't answered anybody's texts, actually, which is — anyway, I've got this audition for another Lifetime movie about Christmas by Michael Feifer who is like, _huge,_ he did _Merry Kissmas_ in 2015, and I think I'm going to nail the part, because my agent said that another client said that the producers said they want _real_ people, like, real talent, and _I'm_ real talent, and I know a lot of the time they're looking for a set of tits or a pretty face or something but I've got the second thing and anyway, I think they're going to like me?" Her voice lilts on the last syllable, like she’s asking a question. "So I'm going today and Nick's giving me a ride because you're in Ohio and I asked Sasha and she can't because she’s got a shift at Lulu and I asked Natalie and she said no, and it's going to be great, but do you think they're going to want somebody more personable, maybe? Do you think I'm personable? I think I can be personable or at least I can come across as personable when I've got to be, which I do, so I will, if they want somebody more personable. But there are plenty of women who think they can do _personable_ and it turns out they just know how to laugh hard at jokes that aren't actually funny. So I think if I just don't laugh except for when I want to laugh and nod a bunch and look thoughtful and really sell the part I'll land it and if I _don't_ land it then Karissa Lee Staples is going to _butcher_ it."

Eddie finds that he isn’t alone in his utter shock and dismay. Mike looks pained. Beverly mouths _say something._

Richie clears his throat. Then, after what Eddie imagines with horror to be at least six prolonged seconds, he says, “uh-huh.”

Bill puts his head in his hands. 

“Yeah,” says Sally, seeming altogether satisfied by Richie’s response. Eddie wants to pull out his hair. Before he can mime for Richie to wrap up their conversation, because there are _infinitely more important things to be doing, things that aren’t this, are you_ kidding _me,_ Sally plows on with what appears to be practiced ease. “And Sasha says she’s dying without you. Apparently inventory’s this week and you left her in the lurch. So,” a noncommittal sound, and she breezes on, “just answer her texts, maybe? So she’ll stop bothering me about it?”

“Yeah.” Richie sounds awkward, but resolutely unpanicked. “Yep.”

“Thanks, Barry,” she says warmly (and Eddie feels his expression darkening, his chest tightening, like the air in his lungs has become a vacuum in space). “Is everything okay? How’s Ohio?”

“Ohio’s _great,_ ” blusters Richie, and Eddie tries to kick at his ankle because Barry is about as chipper as a suicide letter, but Richie sidesteps and proceeds unflinchingly. “Really great. You know, because I’m,” he gestures wildly with his hands before settling upon what Eddie would readily consider the worst possible choice of words in all of the English language, “because I am just tits fucking out for, um, Cleveland.” 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” says Eddie. 

“Right you are, Brady,” concurs Richie. “That’s my cousin, Brady. Kid’s a hoot. Tells you like it is.” 

“...Right,” says Sally, and she laughs in the way that people only do when they feel like there’s nothing else to be said or accomplished during a verbal exchange. “You — okay. Yeah. Just do me that favor and text Sasha? Preferably without,” another pause, “without, you know, sounding like a tool?” 

Richie seems taken aback, like he had considered his tone to be completely and utterly unassuming. And to him, it probably was. Eddie supposes somebody ought to explain to him in excruciating detail that his alter ego is about as conversationally bland as he is cloaked in stupid mystery, so he should probably cease and desist wherever turns of phrase like _tits fucking out_ are concerned. Nonetheless, Richie finally concludes their tiff with an uncharacteristically subdued “okay.” It’s a little painful to witness.

“Great,” says Sally. And then, “bye, Barry.”

Sally has only hung up for about a millisecond when Eddie blurts, “Brady? Fucking Brady? Protip, asshole — if you’re trying to paint a picture of family bonding you probably shouldn’t say stupid shit just because! Nobody said you were exonerating yourself of a _crime,_ ” he stops to breathe, face pink (and turning gradually red), “you could have played it _vague,_ but god forbid you make anything easy for yourself, no, it’s got to be _cousin Brady_ from the tri-state area, he tells it like it fucking is—”

“I think I did alright,” interjects Richie in the floaty, unconcerned voice he would use to needle Eddie about stupid things as kids, solely because it drove Eddie up the wall and into the ceiling. The worst part is that it works. Even as Eddie’s face inches a shade darker and his ears burn and he seriously feels like he could kick Richie’s shin like it’s recess, he recognizes somewhere (everywhere) that it only ever works because he wants it to. There was a time when Eddie was supposed to be made of porcelain and Richie’s parents were plenty nice but Richie wanted to be _seen,_ and he was never seen at home. So Eddie saw him instead. So they were great friends, and they fought constantly, but there was never anything cruel about it (unless it was a _real_ fight, which was different, and rare, and terrible); it was Eddie getting to be just as brave as the other boys with scrapes and bruises and a crass mouth, and Richie getting all of the attention he could ever want and then some. He used to suspect Richie felt the same way, but now he _knows_ so, because it’s 2016, they’re forty, and Richie still has that ever-familliar and triumphant look like he crossed an invisible finish line. 

It could have been anyone, Eddie thinks. Any kid could have been so lucky. He used to sit up and worry that Richie would get sick of him, or that Richie preferred Big Bill or Stanley, in a childish way that quickly became outright and ugly envy after that summer. It was _Richie_ who tried (and failed) to set his broken arm. Later, Eddie wished in a puppyish, lovesick way that Richie had kissed him, instead. It would have at least hurt less. 

It occurs to him suddenly that he is just as jealous as he ever was, if not more so, and he’s so sick with himself and the wedding band encircling his left ring finger that he wants to rip it off and choke on it. 

“We don’t have time for this stupid bullshit.” He squeezes his hands into fists at his sides. “So far as I’m concerned, we should chuck that phone somewhere and leave it. We don’t need any more pointless distractions. Are we going to kill a clown or aren’t we?”

The others look temporarily sheepish, excepting Mike, who brightens immediately and claps an approving hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie supposes there’s nothing wrong with being passionate, least of all when it concerns besting a murderous supernatural entity — but he can’t help but wonder about Mike’s heedless enthusiasm. Derry does things to a person. He knows that much. 

“We’re losing daylight,” says Mike. He glances briefly at Richie (who resembles a kicked dog as he pockets his hands and meanders toward Beverly) before proceeding. “You all need to keep your wits about you. It’s going to be hard, I think — but you’ll find what you’re looking for. I know you will.” 

Eddie, torn somewhere between Richie’s scolded expression and Mike’s sincere display of confidence, feels like a terrible person (and an even worse friend, he can’t help but feel, with Richie attached to Bev and Ben while Bill watches Mike so expectantly). He grasps at his jacket pocket — not for his inhaler, but for Stan’s shower cap. 

He has a sinking feeling that things are only going to get worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE BITCH!
> 
> i don't know if an audience exists for this anymore, but i was struck very suddenly with inspiration, and chapter four happened. i had to reconvince myself that i'm writing this primarily for my own sake so i deserve to have fun with it.
> 
> if you're missing barry POV, good news! he's next on the agenda. there's also going to be some sorely anticipated sexual tension, so i hope y'all enjoy that.
> 
> and... i think that's it. i am unimaginably grateful for every kudos/bookmark/comment and i hope the wait was (somewhat) worth it !!!


End file.
